


Hard to Read

by VulpusTumultum



Series: The Tevinter's Templar [1]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Internal Monologue, M/M, POV Dorian Pavus, Skyhold, Slow Build, Stream of Consciousness, introduction of inquisitor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-10
Updated: 2015-03-10
Packaged: 2018-03-17 07:31:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,638
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3520682
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VulpusTumultum/pseuds/VulpusTumultum
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dorian's thoughts keep straying away from his book and to the Inquisitor on a blustery Skyhold day. </p><p>First chapter takes place immediately before "Last Resort of Good Men"</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Where _would_ Skyhold be without rumors? The place buzzed like one of the great flower beds in the Minathrous gardens on a hot day, without being nearly so pretty or comfortably warm. There was a wind outside that made some of the panes rattle in the window that lit his alcove of choice, but applying some warding theory had at least made it so none of that bracing mountain air actually made it to the back of his neck- and made it feel a bit more like it was _his_ space. That even when he wasn't sitting in the chair there, others were avoiding using it was nice, perhaps a silver lining to being the _Terrible Tevinter_.

The tavern was warmer, but smelled too much of spilled ale and not enough of spices and wines, and the forges or kitchens meant quite a lot of staring- unless he stayed so long and seemed so engrossed in his book that he became background. Amazing, how many believed that if someone was reading a book, they weren't paying any attention to things around them, it worked better here than it had back home.

And meant he was able to listen to the rumors quite easily, even before Mother Giselle or possibly some other concerned individual asked him if he had. Considering the faith they tried applying to the Herald- Inquisitor now, of course- in so much else, it could have been baffling how so few assumed the man dragged a Tevinter mage around the cold, wet, countryside in order to keep a wary eye on him.

The lack of faith could have been baffling, that is, to anyone who didn't acknowledge that people wanted there to be _something_ base about everyone, and valued entertainment more than security unless feeling pressed with immediate danger.

And maybe it had something to do with the way the Dalish warrior wore the title of Herald as if it were an ugly winter coat, gifted to him by a dreadfully important aunt- necessary to wear for a variety of reasons but not favored or comfortable. That must grate on faithful yokels at some level, even after Haven, since it sometimes disturbed _him_.

Being dragged around a castle in some hellish future, and then the present countryside to murder people had given Dorian entirely too much time to see the Inquisitor as a man rather than title and role created by the Maker. An entirely too-attractive man with smooth, tanned skin, whose silvery hair was as raggedly cut as Sera's or Cole's, but didn't make the mage want to swear and hand him a pair of scissors.

A man who had unnervingly dark grey eyes that didn't blink nearly enough when you were the focus of his attention. _That bloody uncomfortable conversation when he'd asked about slavery in Tevinter, the mage's own eyes had wanted to water simply because of that stare. And that was a memory and subject to shy away from even now. There was no way that it could have gone better, forget it and the cold knot it makes your stomach become._

Right. It was a pity the salacious rumors were _not_ true, and would never be true, really. Other than the 'controlling him with blood magic' style ones. Where would the fun even be in that sort of thing? Mindless submission would be a waste of those powerful shoulders and arms.

It was hardly a surprise when the Qunari split someone in two, but that elf could slam into a more heavily armored man or monster that towered over him with his shield and knock them off their feet (and fairly often off of a precipice, wall, or down some stairs, it was clearly a favorite tactic) while making it seem as if it had been no more effort than one of his shrugs.

He shrugged off almost everything. Had the man ever lost his temper? Rushed into things without deliberation? Shouted when not in an actual battle? He could certainly argue, with ridiculous eloquence even, when the mood took him to debate something, but if he agreed entirely he just shrugged or maybe, if he felt up to being so social, grunted in agreement.

And just when you tried to put him back on the shelf labeled “ **Herald of Andraste: Do Not Touch - Always Serious Duty and/or Extremely Bloody Violence** ” he'd be (briefly) suddenly remarkably sarcastic, perhaps roll his eyes, snort like he was the Seeker's long lost twin, or even, Maker forbid, _smile._

But always in the background, (in the most terribly boring clothing if not in armor, (Andraste's tits, had the man _no_ taste whatsoever) until convincing an enemy that he was the best person around to try and kill, or when it was time to play his part as Andraste's Herald, and then suddenly he was completely impossible for _anyone_ to ignore.

A dull lump of rock that suddenly proved to be a diamond whenever in strong light. And Dorian would continue to at least _try_ thinking of the Inquisitor as a dull lump of rock on every other ocassion possible. It wasn't easy, but mages had to be good at that sort of mental focus, did they not?

Speaking of... or rather, thinking of the elf, and there Lavellan was at the alcove's entrance, clearly there to see him, but just standing there like the lump of rock, rather than interrupting his reading immediately.

Or instead of a lump, a polite and ridiculously attractive statue. No, not statue, not with that idle rolling of shoulders- something he did when bored or agitated, and much more apparent in that tunic that fit him entirely too tightly- had it been made for someone smaller? Nothing properly tailored would strain at the shoulders like that, not even in a barbarian backwater. Not even on shoulders like his. Andraste's dimpled ass, didn't anyone else notice how when he moved his arms the thing rode up and one could see a flash of skin? He clearly had no idea. Absolutely  _intolerable._

So, perhaps an experiment was called for: how long before the Inquisitor actually tried attracting his attention away from the book if he pretended to be completely engrossed in it?

 


	2. Expectations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More Dorian PoV: Two small snippets continuing to lead up to Redcliffe and "Last Resort of Good Men"

...And the result from the experiment, apparently was that the elf would stand there watching him leaf silently through the pages of a book for an _uncomfortably_ long period of time before actually clearing his throat, and softly saying his name. Either bad news, then, or he was enjoying the view. But that second would be pandering to rumor, wouldn't it? So, improbable, unlikely, perhaps even impossible.

“Dorian, there is a letter you need to see,” ah, that tone of voice. Clearly something unpleasant, and yet the flash of hope that the concern in the Inquisitor's voice was _for_ him rather than because of him made it easy to laugh as he put the book down. A chance to try and get the infuriating Herald to make an un-lumpish expression, how bad could it be?

“A letter? For me? Is it a naughty letter, perhaps?” _hah, his lips twitched,_ “A humorous marriage proposal from some aged Dowager?”

“No,” and the tone was set back to grim and.. cautious, “it's from your father.”

 _Ah, so perhaps being hit by the Inquisitor's shield felt something like this._ Poor blighters.

“Let me see this letter.”

****

His father. His _father._ Scheming something. An actual Venatori plot was actually less bloody likely than one from family, especially since that Elder One was apparently far too obsessed with the Herald to spread blame for failure to a handsome mage sidekick. But despite all the sudden knots of anger and frustration and _worse_ inside him, it was slightly more terrifying for a moment how the Inquisitorial Lump folded his arms and looked so bloody belligerent over the (not entirely) joke that his father's men might try to literally drag him away as cargo.

Terrifying, because of the slight thrill it gave, that notion his presence was _wanted_ , not just tolerated, but also most definitely reassuring.

And it wasn't entirely unexpected, it couldn't be- after all, the Inquisitor had graciously gone along to every discovered camp of Venatori that Dorian had wished to visit bloodshed and fire upon. Being apparently eager to walk into what could be a worse tangle of vipers was more of the same from him.

And then it was also rather entertaining, the idea of a bunch of lackeys being sent back home in a bloody heap with perhaps a polite note on Inquisition stationary. Dorian actually hoped that it was that unsubtle of a trap.

_It would make hating Father even easier, as well, if he would go to such lengths again._

“So, shall we go meet this retainer of my Father's?”


	3. Lyos

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> PoV shift to Lyos Lavellan, the somewhat introverted Herald/Lump of Andraste.
> 
> Last chapter of this installment for series. 
> 
> "Last Resort of Good Men" and a little afterwards.

Lyos felt twitchy, the empty tavern screaming of _trap_ immediately, though a real trap would have been a relief compared to meeting Dorian's father. How much of the man's being taken aback wasn't just because he had not expected the Inquisitor himself, but instead some Mother or Sister of the southern Chantry? How much because he was also an elf? Heavily armed elf, who was rapidly becoming more tempted to _use_ those arms, even if that might be more than what Dorian would want or appreciate.

He deliberately kept his attention fixed on Magister Pavus, even though he wanted to watch Dorian with more than peripheral vision as well, as his friend stalked in little circles beside him, unleashing his biting anger. Not perhaps entirely a surprise that Dorian preferred men- or at least, he'd been hoping it was the case hard enough that he'd started reading it in the man- but the way he'd been treated for it-  _that was a surprise._

That people could really expect their children to be a kind of idea rather than themselves wasn't a surprise either, but it was still baffling, and the extremes it was taken to- and then nearly taken further to-  _Dread Wolf take the man._

Let him just  _look_ like he was about to do something stupid. Give one excuse to not act like a diplomatic Inquisitor, and send him back to Tevinter in more than one piece-

A silence had fallen again, beginning to stretch. He was far too sharply aware of his companion's remaining anger and pain- and had seen every tiny flinch in the Father's eyes, it  _could_ be genuine sorrow in that man, genuine shame and regret, but he had sympathy for only one of the two men, and it wasn't the Magister.

“Dorian,” the silence was getting too stretched, supposed Herald of Andraste or no, he had no idea really what to when the silence was so chokingly bitter, “If you have heard enough from him, and have no more to say either, we can leave whenever you wish.”

He let Dorian exit first to where the others had been standing watch, not trusting the mage who would have even  _thought_ about using blood magic on his own son. The man opened his mouth, shut it- when Dorian had slammed the door behind him, Lyos began to cautiously follow, but he still didn't take his eyes off the Magister.

“I- regret that-”

“You earned  _your_ regrets. I do not care about them. If you insist on trying to contact the Inquisition, or our ally- my  _friend-_ again, I suggest a confessional's truth rather than more lies.”

“You- would still see that he received letters?”

“I would ask if he wished them. If his answer is no, then perhaps they will be sent back, or used as kindling to save on expense.”

 

He didn't slam the door behind him- from the looks of things, everyone had been possibly ready to go inside to see what was taking him so long. Dorian looked a bit suspicious, as if wondering if more had been said, when he'd thought Lyos had followed him out directly.

He shrugged, and led the way back out of Redcliffe, walking as close to his friend as he dared, not sure of the line between supporting him and embarrassing or interfering with him. Beyond that, all he could do was encourage Varric to enter storyteller mode, so that the silence didn't fill up with so many unspoken questions or comments that some escaped into the open before anyone was really ready for the result.

_Especially_ distract Cole from anything going around in either Dorian or his own head.

He felt like he was trying to walk on eggshells, and the suspicion that Dorian wouldn't appreciate being thought of that way did  _not_ make it better.

If only that very spiky, cynical defensiveness didn't mix with the man's less biting moments of wit and ocassional bouts of ridiculous optimism to make such an attractive package- and those moments of genuine optimism wasn't the only thing he kept wishing he could see more of.

But curse it, he never had been good at saying the right thing at the right time, though maybe he'd get some sort of hint, and actually find a right time to try and talk to Dorian about this. Everything. Anything. Until then, let Varric do the talking, and feel rather envious about how easy the dwarf made it seem.

It surely would be quite a ways away from today's reopening of wounds if there  _was_ going to be a “right time”.

So it was a surprise when only a night later, having found a village tavern to stay in rather than a camp, Dorian brought the meeting in Redcliffe up himself, as they'd headed upstairs after a meal and left Varric to continue Cole's education in Wicked Grace.

“No, I.. didn't find it- I think you are brave, Dorian. It's not easy fighting to be who you want to be and take your own path.”  _and I probably sound like quite the idiot...and while we're being suddenly so honest about feelings and discussing revelations, by the way, how about you and your attraction to men... no, not the time._

It was a relief when Dorian called an end to that awkward admitting of feelings. Well, to a degree, it was a relief, and only some feelings had been waved around, but still, also more of a relief that Dorian had actually said he thought of him as a friend.  _That_ at least was officially reciprocated, and was suddenly comforting to know, even as it also stirred up other hopes anew.

If only he felt more certain about his ability to read expressions and body language, but he'd just never gotten the hang of being social, even among the Dalish- too acidic, too sharp, too defensive, too reactive, and too fond of being out by himself scouting, or curled up with a book he'd either bought when trading with the Shem or had stolen.

A joke, how he'd felt so overwhelmed, like too much was expected of him before even being sent to observe the Conclave and help assess what direction the Chantry would be going...

He felt like a coward, when Dorian went back downstairs to drink alone. He'd been invited but- no, he knew how poorly he held drink, and he didn't need to be made more talkative right now, of all nights. Too easy to make a serious mistake. And far too many staring strangers in the taproom, even in this small village, even if no one started announcing him as Herald, he felt stares.

He tried to read one of the books he'd brought along- but gave up. A history of Orlais from the Shemlen's point of view would have been irritating enough without being so distracted. He heard Varric pouring Dorian into the bed next door before finally getting a few hours of sleep himself.


End file.
